


Picture Book

by thatfangirl



Series: Rose Justice/Róża Czajkowska [1]
Category: Rose Under Fire - Elizabeth Wein
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatfangirl/pseuds/thatfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I was going to ask if I could borrow your camera."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialskiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/gifts).



It was raining when Rose woke. More importantly, it was Sunday, so she pulled the quilt up to her chin and burrowed into Róża's side.

Róża groaned awake. "What time is it?" she asked, half sitting up. As if in reply, church bells began to toll.

"Apples and cherries, say the bells of St. Mary's," Rose recited. She had rewritten the rhyme for Edinburgh's cathedrals within a month of moving there.

Róża grabbed the glass on the nightstand and drank half. Rose loved kissing her then, when her mouth was cool from the water, so she did, and then got out of bed before Róża could complain about the sour taste of her tongue.

Rose brushed her teeth at the washbasin in the corner of the room. "Blossoms and briars, say the bells of Greyfriar's," she continued as she climbed back into bed, where Róża promptly bopped her with a pillow.

"Well, you have to say yes now," Rose said, recovering.

"Have to say yes to what?"

"I was going to ask if I could borrow your camera."

"Ha! I'd have to hit you with something a lot harder to owe you that." The old Leica had been the first thing that Róża had saved up for after arriving. "Why do you want it?"

Rose hesitated. "I wrote to Mother that I'm staying here for Christmas again. I thought that I could send them an album of Edinburgh, give them a better sense of where I live."

"Fine, I'll photograph you." Róża nudged her when she didn't reply. "It's you they want to see."

"I know." Rose picked at the quilt. Her hair had grown back years ago, and while she would never have Róża's curves, she had gained back every lost ounce and then some. Yet the worry remained that someone could look at her and _know_.

Using a bedpost for support, Róża snagged the Leica from its place of pride atop the dresser. Before Rose could react, the shutter clicked, capturing her amid the rucked up blankets of their pushed-together beds. "Róża!" she gasped.

"Don't worry, that is for me." Róża replaced the camera and selected a binder from the bookshelf. "See if you want any of these. I've already booked the darkroom for the afternoon." She made the pilgrimage at least twice a month, and Rose and her textbooks often tagged along. Sometimes Rose studied beneath the red light; most times she ended up entranced by the shapes emerging beneath acrid liquid.

While Rose paged through the negatives, Róża brushed her teeth, and then leaned over the bed. "But first," she said, "you'll kiss me properly."

*

Rose selected impressive views of the unfinished replica of the Parthenon on Calton Hill, the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, and the Scott Monument. Róża rolled her eyes but worked her magic, manipulating the knobs and levers of the enlarger, gently rocking the trays of chemicals, and finally hanging the prints to dry.

The next morning, Rose was hastily smearing margarine on her toast when she heard the shutter: Róża had taken the view from their window. She turned, lifting the camera inquisitively; Rose shook her head. "I'll be late for clinic."

"All right, Dr. Justice." Róża wrinkled her nose. "You sound like a comic book." She bussed Rose's cheek goodbye, and then cackled like a villain in a serial. "You cannot escape me forever, Dr. Justice."

She caught Rose that afternoon, surprising her at her library carrel with a camera click. "Very studious," she commented. "Your mother will like this one. Ha," she whispered at Rose's expression, "you can't even yell at me here." She glanced around the stacks and nodded, self-satisfied. "I'll remember that."

She caught Rose again and again, eating a teacake at their favorite café, shaking out her umbrella at the front door, drowsing in a train compartment. When Maddie and Jamie came to visit, she shot a whole roll of film, and Jamie teased that Rose had her own press corps. In their afternoons in the darkroom, all the other Roses hung like mirrors, and Rose stopped minding her reflection.

*

It was the first Sunday in December when Rose sat down to paste the photos into an album and annotate them. Róża was in an armchair nearby, ostensibly reading, although Rose hadn't heard a page turn for a while. "You know," Rose said, not looking up from where she was identifying Maddie as Mrs. Beaufort-Stuart, "they'll wonder who took all these."

Róża shut her book indignantly. "You're not going to credit me?"

"I want to add one of you."

"I am not their daughter. Give the space to something interesting."

"Did you just call yourself dull?"

Róża heaved to her feet. "Yes," she said, unimpressed by Rose's attempt to bait her. "I am duller than drying paint." She picked up a frame from the windowsill, a snapshot that Jamie had taken that first Christmas at Craig Castle. He had captured Rose, and Róża behind her, laughing at a pantomime that neither could quite follow due to the performers' Glaswegian accents. "You can put this in and write to Maddie for another copy."

"Thank you." Rose flipped to the beginning of the album and affixed it as a frontispiece. _Me and photojournalist extraordinaire Róża Czajkowska_ , she wrote neatly, _Christmas '46_. "Do you want to add anything?"

"Nie," Róża demurred in Polish. "I—"

"—am not their daughter, yes, I know." Rose sighed. "I swear, as soon as I can, I am going to visit, and you are coming with me. Mother will like you, Karl and Kurt will like you, Daddy will like you, and you will be in every picture."

"Hmpf." Róża took her cane and clacked toward the bedroom; Rose shrugged and resumed annotating.

"Here." Rose looked up: the Leica was dangling in front of her nose. "Go ahead," Róża urged. "I will develop it tomorrow. You can still send the album on time." Rose accepted the camera gingerly and Róża boosted herself onto the table, her short legs dangling. "Be sure to get my best side."

Rose stepped back, peered through the rangefinder, and adjusted the lens accordingly. "I love you."

When she developed the photo, Róża was vexed by her smile, but she permitted Rose to include it all the same.


End file.
